What If
by LondonFan
Summary: John muses about what would have happened if him and Sherlock had never met. (Johnlock if you squint)


**Author's Note: **_Written for the fourth Let's Write Sherlock Challenge. The prompt was to write a fic with exactly 1895 words, ending with "obviously". Word counting is a pain in the behind. Every calculator I used told me something different. said it were almost 1950 words, whereas my Open Office document told me something about 1860 words. Online calculators counted amounts from 1870 to 1910 words. Obviously I didn't count the words by myself, I simply trusted my Open Office document - so apologies if this isn't exactly 1895 words. Sorry. *sighs*_

_Also, apologies for any mistakes - this is unbeta'd._

**Warnings: **_Johnlock, if you squint and wear huge slash goggles. It can be a strong friendship. Which the two of them undeniably have.  
_

**Disclaimer:_ I, unfortunately, don't own anything, except the little story._**

_Enjoy xx_

* * *

**What If**

John Watson is a man who thinks a lot.

Sherlock Holmes might not be convinced about that, but John isn't stupid, John isn't _Anderson_, and he likes mind games, he likes to ponder scientific questions – and sometimes he thinks about what might have happened.

John doesn't know when this started, really. Maybe at the age of four, five? He would sometimes ask his mother questions like, "What if you and Daddy had never met? I wouldn't be born then, would I? Somebody else would have my place." And it made him incredibly sad to know that he maybe didn't exist in a different universe. His mother usually laughed, and so did his father, and Harry, of course.

But John never stopped thinking about all the possibilities, about how different his life could have been at any point. It was fun, it was interesting, and it was something that cured his boredom.

* * *

In Afghanistan... well, there were some nights in which John lay on his makeshift bed, staring up at the desert sky with all its stars and hearing his comrades' cries of pain. He often wondered back then where he would be if he had never joined the Army. Or how many people would have survived if John had been in different places at different times.

He never got an answer.

But simply thinking about all scenarios was enough for him. Knowing that his other self would sit at home, peacefully reading a book, maybe playing with his children in another universe, made him happy and gave him the strength to endure another day at war.

But even thoughts cannot stop tragedies from happening.

When a bullet hits his shoulder, John is just happy that it didn't hit his head – because it _could_ have been a possibility.

* * *

John Watson is sent home as an invalid.

Everyone calls him war veteran – but he knows he could be dead. It is not a nice feeling.

One day, he walks through London and suddenly meets one of his old mates from uni, Mike Stamford. They start chatting and John keeps thinking about if they had met in other universes as well if he hadn't joined the military.

Then Mike suggests that John should get a flatmate, and John agrees, and then he meets the most brilliant man ever and his world is turned upside down.

But what if... what if Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had never, ever met?

* * *

"Do you sometimes think about what would have happened if we hadn't met?" John asks one evening as Sherlock and he are sitting side by side on their sofa, both enjoying a book and occasionally sipping tea.

Sherlock looks up and frowns, pondering the question and apparently failing to come up with an answer. "What do you mean, John?" he asks instead, closing the book and putting it aside.

John does the same and turns to properly look at Sherlock.

"Well," he begins, "just imagine – what would our lives be like today if I hadn't bumped into Mike some years ago? Or what if I hadn't got shot? What if you hadn't talked to Mike about needing a flatmate?"

Sherlock is quiet for some time, gaze directed towards the ground. John can almost _hear_ the gears in his head turning.

He genuinely hopes it isn't because Sherlock has deleted who Mike is.

The genius looks up after a minute or two and stares at John with that intense gaze of his, fingers tented beneath his chin. "Why would you think about questions like these, John?" he asks, truly wondering about John's reason. "We are here now, this is what counts, is it not?"

"Sure," John answers and clears his throat, nervously licking his lips. "And I'm bloody glad it turned out like that." He hopes to elicit a smile from Sherlock but fails – his face is still the cold mask he always wears. "But – Afghanistan always got me thinking, back when I was still a soldier. I was always wondering how I would have ended up if I hadn't joined the Army, if I had continued to be a doctor in a hospital, not on a battlefield."

Sherlock nods as a sign of understanding. "Go on."

"I don't know _why_ I worry about those things, I just do." John stares at his trousers, tugging at the material nervously. "And... I just know that I would still be that lonely and broken and worn soldier if you hadn't waltzed into my life like you did."

"I didn't _waltz into your life_, John, I was standing in Bart's conducting an experiment," Sherlock corrects and raises an eyebrow.

John chuckles. "I know, you prat. But that's not the point. The thing is, if a thing had gone differently in our lives, just one tiny little thing, we would not be where we are now. Don't you agree?"

Sherlock frowns again. "What do you mean?"

John sighs and closes his eyes for a fraction of a second. "I could have been dead because the bullet could have hit my head instead of my shoulder. You could be dead if some of your dangerous cases had gone wrong. In fact, we both probably could never have met."

"But we _did _meet," Sherlock insists.

"Yeah, we did." John looks at him. "But what if we didn't?"

* * *

They don't talk about this topic again that evening. But it hasn't been forgotten. John continues to think about what-ifs, and Sherlock does wonder, too, sometimes. He knows for a fact that his life with John has been wonderful, that he actually was happier than ever before.

John thinks the same, actually. He knows that Sherlock turned everything in his life upside down and he made him feel alive once again, even more so if John is quite honest with himself. Sherlock is the quiet before the oncoming storm, and he is the storm himself, and frankly, it's all what John needs. Sherlock is brilliant and clever and mad and annoying and wonderful and just perfect. He gives John all he wants, and so much more than that.

John knows he would be lost without Sherlock Holmes. He knows his limp would be back. There would be no 221B (his _home_), no chases, no dangerous experiments, no banter about who should get the milk, no Sherlock flopping down on the sofa in a sulk, no curls to tousle to cheer him up again, nobody to take care of. There would be just boredom.

He knows he would most likely be depressed, always thinking of ending his pathetic life.

But he doesn't.

Because he has Sherlock.

Downstairs, Sherlock is pacing the room. He is bored, doesn't have a case, he needs to occupy his mind with something, _anything_. And suddenly he remembers the conversation he had with John. He sits down on the sofa and enters his Mind Palace, recalling every childhood memory, every situation of his adolescence and adulthood he can remember and begins to analyse them.

It is a fact that John makes him happy, he thinks, and if he hadn't met John, his life would still be dull and boring. It sometimes is tedious nowadays as well, but less so whenever John is around. John, John, John. His doctor, his blogger, his flatmate, his friend.

Sherlock comes to a conclusion. He calls upstairs for John, and he immediately comes into the living room. As expected.

"What's up?" he asks, looking around. "Shall I send a text to a murderer or something?"

"Don't be daft," Sherlock scolds him, and gestures for John to join him on the sofa. "I would like to talk to you."

"Should I be afraid now?" John jokes but obeys and sits down.

"It's about what you said some days ago, John," Sherlock starts off.

John frowns, then says, "Do you mean this What-If-We-Never-Met thing?"

"Exactly."

"But that was _weeks_ ago, Sherlock!" John looks surprised. Shocked, even. Although he should already be used to Sherlock forgetting things, or when they took place.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock scoffs. "I want you to know that I have been thinking about that matter and I have come to a conclusion."

Curiosity is clearly visible on John's face. "And what would that be?"

"That we have absolutely no reason to be sad or upset about any possible scenarios."

"Why not?" John looks sad. "Don't you think it would be disappointing that in another universe we have not met?"

"I agree that it would be – different."

John scoffs. "Different. _Different_." He shakes his head. "It wouldn't be just _different_, it would be _horrible_!"

Sherlock stares at him. "In how far?"

John looks at him, head tilted to the side. "For a genius you can be quite daft sometimes, do you know that?

The only answer he gets is a frown.

John sighs and rubs his hands over his thighs. "Listen. I already said that I would still be that lonely soldier with a hurting leg and a bad shoulder had you never entered my life."

"Yes. So?"

"Don't you think that would be horrible?" John looks at Sherlock, expecting him to show at least a little pity. No, not pity, John doesn't need pity. Empathy, perhaps.

"It certainly wouldn't be good for your health," Sherlock agrees, hesitating shortly.

John rubs a hand over his face. Sherlock just doesn't _get_ it and it's frustrating. Now he probably knows what Sherlock feels whenever somebody around him is being stupid. How on _earth_ is he supposed to properly explain this to the Great Detective if he himself has problems to fully understand it?

All his thoughts are just so confusing, and sometimes even depressing.

John throws the Union Flag pillow from the sofa in frustration. "This is _not_ what I am trying to say! Well, somehow it _is_, I suppose but..." He interrupts himself, struggling to find the right words to convey his message.

"You're the best thing that could have happened to me!" John finally blurts out, eyes wide, mouth open. "Don't you _see_? You're _everything _to me! I need you to be happy, to be healthy!"

Sherlock stares at him, mouth opening and closing twice before he actually says something. When he does, it is merely a whisper. "Me too, John."

John can't hide the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth and he just gives in. He smiles warmly at Sherlock, but it falters soon enough.

"There is the possibility," he says, "that in another universe we would not know a _thing_ about each other."

"But we aren't in that universe, now, are we?" Sherlock argues.

"No," John admits, "but..." He really doesn't want to think about it, but he has to. The thought has been on his mind for ages now, he _needs_ to get it out, he _needs_ Sherlock to understand. "But aren't you scared that we could never have met?" John insists. "That we could probably... never have found each other?"

"No," Sherlock says, shaking his head thoughtfully, "we would always find each other, John. No matter where or when. Because we belong together. Because a Sherlock Holmes and a Doctor John Watson _always _belong together."

He looks up at his flatmate who is smiling warmly, his eyes sparkling gently as he looks at his best friend. Sherlock smiles back, and after a bit of thought he adds,

"Obviously."


End file.
